


It's Not All Bad

by fuzzybatbutts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Hell, I actually don't know, i was bored
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:23:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzybatbutts/pseuds/fuzzybatbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deans gotten used to Hell and its wonders, so this is a trip to a basic walk through Hell and all its mysteries. Dean actually likes Hell, being a demon isn't all that bad. But what he hates are his memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not All Bad

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! SO! I info dumped again. Sorry bout that. Since the heat in Canada is ridiculous right now my brain is fried so this was all I can do. Sorry. I'm going to eventually add a second part to this, but I wanted to get all the gross bits out of the way. And yes, its gonna be a torture fic. Torture porn? Maybe, I'll need help with the porn bits though. Torture is really the only thing I'm good at writing (please don't ask why). Also, I've discovered world building and details are more interesting than plot *cough cough* Ushya *cough cough*
> 
> And on the subject of Ushya, I'll have another drabble up decently soon. Tacky christmas sweaters for the win
> 
> FYI I info dump like this so I can create a world, then make drabbles in said world. Idk, its just how I write I guess

Dean Winchester had grown to love Hell.

 

It might have been a strange thing to say, but for Christ’s sake he’d been there for long enough before he turned that it was already a second home. It certainly was better when you were the ones doing the torture rather than the tortured, and now that he was a full fledged black-eyed bastard he truly belonged in the crowd.

 

And if he could be honest from this side of the field, Hell was actually kind of beautiful. There was just something beautiful about it. Chaos and pain went well together, and when combined with the strange creatures that called this place home it really was an interesting place. Dante had been strangely accurate in his poems, it was indeed divided into sectors with different sinners, but what he didn’t mention were all the sub-categories and places where the demons would hang. Dean’s personal favourite was the sixth circle. Heresy.

Screams had become to equivalent to J. S Bach down in the pit, and when your flesh burns inside a tomb for all eternity, you’re gonna create some pretty gorgeous cantatas. The reek of burning flesh was like a never ending barbeque and if no one was watching some of the demons would pour oil on the poor meat suits, laughing at the sizzling sounds it make before slamming the lids shut and listening to the deep-frying souls inside. The sizzling and rancid smell of burnt oil brought back faint memories of his human life, which already seemed light years away. Some far off sent mixed with laughter of two men and the roar of an old car motor to create a strange memory that confused Dean. Was that him laughing so hard? He used to laugh? And who was the other one, brother? Boyfriend? Dean didn’t know for sure, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

 

But if memories got too over whelming the next best place to be was the good old-fashioned torture room. It was used for training newbies and for keeping souls that either hadn’t gotten a determined sin, or were just a mixed bag of everything nasty. Filled to the brink with rusted knives and nails, flayed skin hung from the ceilings like streamers, and chains clacked and rattled, harmonizing to the agonized cries of souls screaming. Chelsea Grins were a common practice and something Dean liked. Seeing the victims with the morbid excuse for a smile sent a rush through Dean and filled him with strange buzz, the ultimate version of an adrenaline high. Since it wasn’t fatal he could continue on to worse methods, simple slicing and dicing or a more morbid choice like flaying. The former Righteous Man hand a steady hand and could remove a pelt from a human faster than anyone, including the King himself.

 

Crowley was his new torture mentor since Alistar had been deco-missioned a long time ago. Learning how to make to pigs squeal provided a strange amount of pleasure, which Crowley said was normal. Every demon got off that the sight of blood and slicing open humans was a full on equivalent to sex. Down in Hell there was a lot of that too even considering it was the original den of iniquity, but Dean didn’t feel the need anymore. According to other demons who had heard of him in his human life, he’d been a real womanizer, but women down here didn’t seem attractive or enough remotely interesting. And since most were Succubi he wouldn’t even tread on that territory. They were nasty broads who would rather skin you than fuck you, so Dean never understood why some were stupid enough to chase after them, even if they looked like a supermodel on a good day.

 

Something strange about Hell was actually the amount of interesting people. Or, former people. Demons had interesting stories if you ever listened, some dating back to the dark ages when people ran around half naked and covered in dirt. A snarky red eye named Hendereye was a famous story-teller, and his most famous was the time he and a group and taken out an entire village of people with nothing but a torch, some twigs, and a pair of shoes. Hendereye was old as dirt and probably older than most of the demons around. Whenever they had celebrations, and yes parties in Hell were probably the best damn thing in the history of earth, under the watchful eye of Behemoth, him and his remaining party of friends sat around a bonfire fueled by souls and told their tales. It brought up another buried memory in Dean. The smell of whiskey and car oil, and old house stacked with books, and an old man wearing a beaten hat. An uncle? Family friend? Everything was fuzzy, but Dean wanted to keep it that way. Crowley had made sure to show him demons that had remembered who they were and it turned them into heaving snot piles who often went bat shit insane after a time passed.

 

Seeing demons true forms was an interesting experience too, especially the fallen angels. Most black eyes form was crafted from animal bits mixed with human or snake bits. Some had lion heads, some had snake eyes, some had bull heads, but one of the most interesting Dean had seen was a 319 meter tall fallen Seraph. A grey body twisted around cracked bones and slathered with strange golden slime, ichor it was called. The twisted body looked like the gnarled body of an old tree with eyes and mouths filled with teeth shoved in. It had six mangled heads, some resembling human and some resembling beasts. The main one looked human, but had a grin of endless sharp teeth, twisted tongues, what appeared to be 30 eyes and hair make of pit vipers. Long, thin, spider-like appendages with clawed bones resembled hands, but the wings had been the most impressive. Six, once sky-blue wings had been snapped and two were missing entirely. Ichor dripped from the wounded wings and many feathers were missing or burnt away. Dean thought it must have been beautiful once, but now it was a useless lump of flesh like the rest of his kind. Because there were no mirrors in Hell, Dean’s form was unknown to him, but several of his friends had described him. A black and golden dragon was their best guess, with large bat style wings and a mouth of needle-like teeth. Two twisted and cracked horns burst from his skull, and his eyes were a jade green. Musclely and with claws the size of sabres, he was impressive for a demon. The only odd thing was that he felt human and he walked like one, but appearantly they all looked like their former human bodies to themselves.

 

Hell resembled one great party that the best of times, gibbering kin and screaming prey were the only sounds, but there was once very special place. A place only Dean and Crowley knew how to get too.

It was way down, down to the very belly of Hell. In the ninth circle, lay a frozen lake. Pale blue, and it shone an unnatural white light. Bits of flesh or bone would drift down and land on the lake, adding to a collection of morbid sculptures on the surface. Anything that touched it would freeze instantly, or be sucked down into the lake. That was where the Seven lay. Not the seven sins, no. The Seven Princes of Hell. Belial, Satan (Crowley had made sure Dean knew that Satan and Lucifer were two different people), Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Leviathan (“ _Not the goopy sons of bitches who pine after Her_ ,” Crowley had told him, _“This mother is the original. A giant sea serpent, over 200 hundred bloody meter long and a nasty son of a gun. He monitors the Mouth of Hell at sea from down there. Don’t piss him off.”),_ Mammon, Belphegor, and Lucifer. All of them expect for Leviathan who was free to swim around were trapped down there under the frozen water. Crowley had made sure they weren’t going anywhere. To ensure this, his mansion was built down here, away from the screaming and endless partying of his kin.

 

Crowley’s mansion was a sight to see. Seven stories (ha ha) tall, solid brick, and an impressive garden of weird magical flowers and fruits grew in the front, and statues of frozen demons were placed around a fountain in the center. The inside was surprisingly cozy for Hell, and it was a haven for Dean when the memories and noise became too much. Many lazy nights had been spent watching Leviathan swim lazy circles in the lake, or laying on the roof staring up into the endless ceilings were souls swirled with blue light, mimicking stars. The quiet murmur of the lake and the hum of the celebration above was calming, and did wonders when Dean was worn out. But tonight it wasn’t helping.

 

These specific memories jabbed out of his brain like an annoying shard of glass he couldn’t remove. He had learned to drown out all of them, even a particularly vivid of himself and a man hugging each other, as bright comet-shapes fell from the sky. The night the angels fell. But it had nothing compared to these. Two sparkling, impossibly blue eyes, a head of messy dark hair, bags under his eyes, and a dirty trench coat. A voice, deep and soothing, crying out his name over and over like a broken record player. Grace, shone out of his figure, bright and as beautiful as the figure. It was a man, or had it been a man? A bright memory showed him standing in a barn with the mystery figure and two wings as dark as pitch flashed behind him. An angel? He had known an angel? But who? Who?!

 

Dean cried out in frustration and buried his face in his hands. The memories had been taunting him for months, driving him crazy with rage. The figure refused to leave his head, seared onto his brain by some godly force, and he hated it. Hated the feeling some perfect creature could do this to him, drive him this crazy. If he ever got his hands on the thing, he’d snap off every bit of it, tear every bit of flesh from the bones for payback. The memories made him weak, and weak was something he hated almost more than the figure.

 

A strong hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his delusions, and his head snapped up to look. Crowley. “You do realize the racket you’re making don’t you?”

“Oh uh,” stammered Dean, not quite used to him popping up out of no-where, “Sorry sir.”

 

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Those damned memories again yeah? Blimey, they’re almost as stubborn as you. But I think I have a solution.” He said, eyes dancing with amusement.

 

“You see, I had my boys out looking for the thing you described. Took an awfully long time, but I can’t have my lead torturer out of his game. We found the thing that’s been dancing around in that pretty skull of yours,” said Crowley with a sly grin, “would you like to meet your tormentor?”

 

Dean shot up from his spot on the ground with frightening speed, “Yes please sir! I need to see that son of a bitch and get my head straight.”

 

“Well then,” said Crowly, sly grin in place. He held his hand out to Dean, “Shall we meet your personal demon?”

 

 

 


End file.
